


No Man's Land

by Pollyanna



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-23
Updated: 2008-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollyanna/pseuds/Pollyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They keep meeting, but they're never in the same place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man's Land

As brigs went, it wasn't too bad. It was drier and had less ventilation than the Pearl, which was kind of sad now he thought of it. Once he had his darling back, he would make sure there was less water and a lot fewer holes. There was still a distinct lack of rum, although he had hopes of talking one of the more gullible sailors out of their grog ration. Or one of the marines, and thinking of which, his two favourite interlocutors and potential rum donors had just loomed out of the shadows.

"Out," said Murtogg, or possibly it was Mullroy.

"At Isla de Muerta already?"

"No, the Commodore wants a word with you," said Possibly Mullroy, unlocking the door.

"With me?" he said as he sidled out of the brig, to be grasped firmly by the arms and marched to the stairs. "Talk, don't talk, talk. Thought navy officers were supposed to be decisive."

"Less cheek, you. The Commodore's a goodun," said Might-it-be Murtogg, with a shake of the arm he was grasping.

"Oh, I'm sure he is." He paused and thought, no time like the present. "Generous with the grog, no doubt?"

He could almost feel their eyes meet behind his back, then look up to heaven for strength, but he wasn't discouraged. Every good plan had small beginnings.

* * *

Norrington was in his cabin, sitting at a small table by the wall, and twisted round to look at his prisoner, one arm on the back of his chair, and one leg stretched out in counterbalance. He had taken off his coat and waistcoat to write, and after the dazzle of the deck, appeared as a long streak of paleness against the dark wood of his cabin. White stockings, white breeches, white shirt, white wig and as pale-skinned as a sailor could be. It made his rather pretty green eyes under the dark eyebrows particularly fetching, although he wouldn't be sharing that thought with the Commodore.

"Dismissed." A sigh. "Not you, Sparrow. You will stay right where you are. I hear that you've been chattering to the guards, so I think we need to clarify exactly what is meant by silence."

"Talk, don't talk, talk," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?"

"Who me? I wouldn't be uttering a word. Not a syllable. Not without permission, that is." He tried a winning smile, but apparently without much success.

The Commodore sighed again and placed his quill in the inkstand, before turning back and saying, "We have two topics of conversation, Sparrow."

Standing up and pacing towards him, he stopped a few feet away, and looked into his eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

"Firstly, what you did to Miss Swann on that island. And secondly, what you are going to tell people you did."

Just as he was about to reply, Norrington held up a hand to stop him.

"Depending on your answer to the second, I might decide to have your tongue cut out. The answer to the first may also involve a sharp object and a piece of your anatomy."

He shut his mouth with a snap. The Commodore gave one of his cold smiles, before signalling at him to continue.

"Well, firstly," he said, holding up one finger for emphasis, before continuing plaintively, "Have you tried doing anything to Elizabeth without her permission?"

The side of the Commodore's mouth twitched.

"And secondly, if I tell people I got drunk on rum and passed out, that will be the exact and bitter truth. Only leaving out the fact that she was the one that got me drunk."

"It would be wise if you did leave that out. And what might you be telling people about what happened to her on the Black Pearl?"

"That is completely unreasonable. I didn't have anything to do with her treatment on the Pearl."

The Commodore took one pace nearer, and he thought quickly.

"But if I was to be saying anything, I would be pointing out, from my vast experience of pirating." He held his hands as wide apart as the chain would allow. "That if you take a Governor's daughter for ransom, you make sure that no one lays a finger on her. Damaged goods don't get such a good price. Well, not if they're obviously damaged, that is."

The Commodore rolled his eyes and held up his hand, making a snipping motion with his fingers. "You always have to say one sentence too many, don't you Sparrow."

His lips felt suddenly dry, and he ran his tongue out to wet them. The Commodore seemed quite distracted by the action, which was interesting and offered some possibilities.

"You wouldn't really want to snip off my tongue, now would you, Commodore. It's a very agile tongue. See." He took a step forward and this time he made the lip-wetting slower, and with flourishes.

The Commodore swayed and almost took a step back, raised a hand as if to loosen his necktie, before dropping it and scowling.

"You are a vile, disgusting pervert, Sparrow."

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "Pervert. Pirate. Easy mistake to make. But even a pirate can recognise friendly waters when he sees them." He paused and lowered his voice. "And keep quiet about them when need be."

"I should definitely have you silenced," said Norrington with a frown. "Guards!"

"That wouldn't be strictly fair though, would it, since I haven't actually said anything."

As Murtogg and Mullroy entered, he raised his voice. "Miss Swann's fiancee has nothing to worry about, on my honour." He removed his hat and flourished it in a low bow. He raised his head, and winked with the eye furthest from the door.

The Commodore snorted. "I doubt you'd recognise your honour if it ran over you in the street driving a coach and four." He turned back to his desk. "Still, I found out what I needed to know. Take him back to the brig."

At least it was dry, and he could ponder small beginnings.

* * *

He could never find anything in his cabin since Barbossa had lodged there. It was very unsettling, and Elizabeth being so unpersuasive was also unsettling, not to say downright disappointing. But there were other fish in the sea and what was the good of being captain if you couldn't give orders.

He popped his head out the door and roared, "Gibbs!" before going back to pacing his cabin.

It only took a few moments for his bosun to come in. "We're making good speed, captain. Would you be wanting anything in particular?"

"Tell Norrington to come here immediately."

"Norrington? Norrington." Gibbs headed for the door, turned round, and with a lopsided shrug, said "Could I make it more of a suggestion? It's a bit awkward, you see. Him being an ex-officer, one of my ex-officers to be exact."

"And I am your captain. Your current captain, to be exact. Get him in here."

Gibbs left muttering something about hats. Now, he should look casual and disinterested. Leaning over the chart table perhaps, or sitting at it, or tilting back in his chair with his feet on it.

A tall scruffy figure slouched through the door and leaned against one of the timbers. And that was all kinds of wrong, _slouch_ should not be a verb he should be thinking of for the Commodore, even if he had resigned.

"You wanted to see me?"

He let his chair fall back to the floor, and huffed in exasperation, "Captain."

Norrington raised an eyebrow.

"'You wanted to see me, Captain?' Or even better, 'Captain Sparrow'. Since I do in fact have a ship, on which you are currently serving. Which makes the 'Captain' even more imperative."

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

That had sounded much more respectful in his imagination. But he couldn't let small setbacks get in the way of the bigger picture. He stood up and came round to the front of the table, and waved his hand between himself and the leaning figure.

"I was thinking we should take this opportunity to get to know each other better."

"You mean ...." Norrington made a vague gesture around waist height that might indicate he'd be willing to partake in congress of a sexual persuasion, or that he was very fond of dwarves. Which might explain why Marty always seemed so pissed off when he was around.

It was also a bit disconcerting since he had been planning on working up to a veiled suggestion, but he could be flexible.

"That would be my meaning exactly, and shows great perspiration ... no ... persimmons? No ... perspicacity on your part."

Norrington pushed himself upright and started slowly stalking towards him.

"So, what is it you'd be wanting, Captain? A hand-job up against the wall; bending me over your chart table; perhaps you like to be the one with your legs spread? Oh, I know, haven't you always wanted to see me on my knees?" As he said the last he dropped to the floor just in front of him, looking up with those cool green eyes, as welcoming as the seas off Iceland. "All you have to do is give the order."

And it had all been going so well. The problem with giving orders was there were some orders that he couldn't bring himself to give. They brought to mind memories that he'd been almost completely successful in forgetting. "The order?" he repeated to stall the conversation.

"Yes, the order. Surely you're not so principled that you wouldn't order your crew to service you?" asked Norrington with one of those smirks which said he'd made a joke that only he found funny.

"The order? Ah well, wouldn't you be wanting to do it voluntarily like? Always a good idea to keep on the right side of the captain," he said with an engaging smile.

The smile that Norrington returned wasn't particularly engaging, or promising, or kind, as he rose to his feet as smoothly as he'd gone down.

"That presupposes that I have any interest in keeping on your right side ... Captain." He looked up and down as if studying a peasant who'd just fallen into a dung pile, before turning on his heel and sauntering out of the cabin.

A whimper made its presence felt, before he pouted and settled his hat more firmly on his head. Perhaps he should give Elizabeth another chance?

* * *

The rum had been gone for a while, and even though he really wanted to find the Aqua de Vita, at the moment he'd settle for a mouthful of any aqua without salt in it. Now if he could just convey that to this accursed compass. He shook it again, thought, _Water_ firmly, and looked down. It swung to and fro, before slowly turning in one direction as if being pulled by an outside force. Well, it wasn't as if he had a lot of choice, so he trimmed the sail to catch the little wind that blew, and took that course. Even though he was squinting in the moonlight to see if he could make out where he was heading, he still didn't see any indication of land before he struck something with a judder and fell into the bottom of the boat.

Grabbing hold of the gunwale he peered over the edge and saw a spit of white sand, which seemed to become wider as he looked at it. A few feet away two stranded crabs were clacking their claws at each other, fighting or possibly doing a mating dance - it was difficult to tell and probably only of concern if you were another crab. One of the crabs turned and scurried sideways towards the boat.

"Hello, Jack."

He looked behind him, to either side, up, down, and behind him again before gazing warily at the crab.

"Calypso?"

"Ah, that's my quick Jack."

"Good to see you again, Calypso, you're looking lovely, very," he spread his arms and waved his hands, "crabby." He winced, but Calypso laughed.

"You always did have the sweetest way with words, Jack. And I be inclined to give you something you desire, since you gave me back my Davy."

He looked across at the other crab which snapped its claws at him. Now he thought on it, one of the claws did seem a bit familiar. But he's distracted by the sound of bubbling water, as a small spring appears in the white sand. Silver and sparkling in the light of the full moon.

"The Fountain of Youth?"

"Not that easy for you, Jack, but it's clean, fresh water for the drinking."

And the night is still hot from the furnace of the day, his mouth pursed and dry, so he climbs from the boat, stumbling on the firm land, crawling on hands and knees towards the water. Almost he thinks it will disappear when he reaches it, but his mouth is suddenly full of liquid silver, and he ducks his head and chest into the pool that's forming. He soaks up the water like a sponge and drinks again and again before he feels satisfied. At last he turns on his back and looks up into the star strewn sky.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but you couldn't see your way clear to pointing me in the direction of the Fountain?"

"Why so eager, Jack, when there are some gifts that only death can bring?"

He rolled over and stared at the crab in disbelief. It waved a claw and he followed its direction to see a light bobbing up and down on the ocean. As he watched it came closer, and became a boat with a shadowy form in it. As the boat touched the spit and the figure stepped out, it resolved itself into a man wearing blue trousers and a white shirt, with a tranquil expression.

He sat up and beamed. "Commodore."

"It's Admiral now actually, not that I'm that proud of the title, or what I did to get it." Which would be why the coat and hat, and even the wig were missing, but there was still a neatness to him that was reminiscent of the old Commodore, as was the frown that was settling on his face. "But I died, didn't I? So I'm not an Admiral or anything really, except possibly in Purgatory since you're here too, Sparrow."

"That's not very civil of you, Comm ... James."

An eyebrow quirked up. "At least I didn't say Hell, Jack. But what am I doing here?"

"Well, there's been a few changes." He bounced to his feet, and walked towards James, counting off the points on his fingers. "Davy Jones is dead, or, at least, dead-ish, but Captain Turner, that would be Captain Turner of the Flying Dutchman, as opposed to Captain Turner the Pirate King, hasn't got round to retrieving all the souls that have died at sea, of which, you would be one."

James was looking a little dazed, but his mind was obviously still working. "So, you would be dead too?"

"No! Definitely no, but I have been in the vicinity, you could say, which would probably be explaining why I should be able touch you." And matching action to words, he brought up a hand to stroke the smooth cheek above him, the other hand moved up of its own accord, and they pulled the head down so he could finally get to kiss that mouth. Somehow it was a very innocent kiss, and when they parted, James had the sweetest smile on his face. Still amused, though.

"I suppose since I'm dead and you're in the vicinity, there's no harm to a little touching."

"No harm at all, but watch out for the crabs."

"I don't think that will be a concern now I'm dead." He thought about elucidating the situation, but what were a few crabs amongst friends, and he didn't want to waste any time which could be better spent in getting naked. For once, they were in perfect agreement and soon their clothes were scattered about their feet.

He plastered himself against the expanse of skin that was presented to him, as pale as marble and as cool to the touch. Cool but not clammy, which was a relief now he came to think of the possibility, instead as welcoming as shade against the sun. James had seemed surprised by his sudden limpet-like clasp, but brought his hands round to hold him in return, running his fingers gently over the scars he found.

"You've had a hard life, Jack." His voice had a tenderness that he'd only heard before in words addressed to Elizabeth, and that was a thought that could lead to all kinds of distractions if he wasn't careful.

"I like a little hardness in my life," he said, circling his hips to demonstrate the subject. He could feel James rolling his eyes, before he was tugged down to the nest of clothes, very practical considering the sand, which had the nasty habit of getting everywhere. There was a lot of twisting and turning and fumbling, before James sat up with an exasperated snort.

"Would it be too much to ask for a little co-operation when I'm trying to suck you off?'

"Well, in my defence, I was hoping for a taste myself," he said. "But I think I may have the solution. Have you ever heard of a Singapore Sling?"

And it seemed the Commodore had misspent his youth in some very productive ways, since he nodded and lay down on his side. He curled himself in the opposite direction and ran a tongue along the cock presented to him, just as a cool mouth closed about his own balls. He whimpered as a tongue explored all the soft skin it could reach, and was rewarded by a gasp when he took the shaft before him in his hand and sucked at the head. There were sighs and groans, the occasional scrape of teeth, possibly a yelp when cold fingers came into play. When their mouths weren't occupied there were entreaties that sounded like curses, and endearments that questioned parentage. When they came, it was together, which might have been the influence of a certain goddess. And if the night seemed a little longer, and their stamina surprising, they were most appreciative.

When he woke in the morning, he was sadly alone on the white sand, but he didn't stay despondent for long. Eternal life might be a little tricky to find, but you couldn't stroll along a beach in the Caribbean without falling over someone who'd just come back from the dead. It would need a little planning and a large quantity of luck, but when all was said and done, he _was_ Captain Jack Sparrow.

THE END


End file.
